


Bear Cub: Stranger In The Night

by Oceanwhirl



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Swap, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, M/M, Parent!Victuuri, Reversed Age AU, Swearing, Teen Crush, Teenage Boy Hormones, YOI Shit Bang 2017, Yuri!!! on Ice Shit Bang 2017, Yuri's bad language, fan admiration, underage!Otabek, unwanted boners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 04:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11960055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oceanwhirl/pseuds/Oceanwhirl
Summary: “Who said I’d become a coach for some obscure...”, he looks Otabek up and down from only a few steps away; the Kazakh can vividly imagine what a tiger’s prey feels like right now, “...teenager.”15-year-old Otabek Altin lives a quiet (boring) life as a mediocre figure skater in the Kazakh junior division. His days are only brightened by swooning over his idol (crush) Yuri Plisetsky. So when there are rumors that Yuri might try coaching next season Otabek doesn't hesitate a heartbeat, steals his father's bike and goes on a mission to win Yuri's heart. But what if Yuri doesn't even want to listen to him?My fic contribution for the YOI shit bang 2017 - enjoy!! ^^





	Bear Cub: Stranger In The Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sprosslee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprosslee/gifts).



> NOTE: So, my friend Sprosslee and I talked about joining the shitbang and as I didn’t have an idea right away, she started yelling the plot of this one at me per SNS lol. I returned the favor for her entry then and it was great fun to write like this.  
> She mentioned she came up with the idea for the AU after she saw this lovely drawing by the even more lovely Natsu who kindly allowed me to link to her art over here:  
> http://natsubutart.tumblr.com/post/160052145074  
> Sprosslee also requested some punchlines from the show in a different way and some specific dialogue, so of course I dedicate this piece of problematic content to her ^-^  
> I worked together with the dearest maclearoni whose incredibly lovely art I was allowed to embed in the fanfiction. Check out her stuff on maclaeroni.tumblr.com please!  
> Have fun!

 

„So, what are your plans for the Grand Prix?“

The gold medalist playfully tilts his head like he has to think about the reporter’s question. His shoulder-length hair swings like a curtain of silk. “I guess I’ll come up with something very surprising.” He gives the camera a wink and Otabek almost has a heart attack.

The screen shows the silver medalist now and Otabek loses interest. He lies on his back on the floor in the living room. The carpet is old and thick, dusty in the core although his mother vacuums it at least twice a week. The white parts have been gray for so long now that he can’t even remember if they have ever really been white or if he just thinks that they must have been one day. The carpet is old, older than him. Everything in this house is older than him, even the TV.

He rolls onto his side, looking up to the old CRT that shows the table with the results from the World Championship of figure skating. On top of the list, in the first place is – as usual – Russia’s Yuri Plisetsky. Russian Fairy, Ice Tiger, there are so many nicknames for him and every single one is a terrible understatement of how perfect that young man is.

Otabek sighs, expressing all his feelings with one heartbreaking inhale and exhale. If he could ever be a little more like Yuri Plisetsky. Just a tiny little bit - that would be perfect. But right now the only similarity between them seems to be their profession and the amount of their eyes.

It’s true, Otabek skates as well. And he’s not that bad. He started when he was a child, was terrible at it in the beginning and worked hard to get to where he is now: 15 years old and the bronze medalist of the junior championships. He thinks that he can do better at the Grand Prix in fall, and he’s going to train extra hard during the summer break. But to become as brilliant as Yuri Plisetsky? ‘No hope there, Altin’, that’s what his coach always says. He believes in Otabek, he really does, but they both know that his possibilities are limited. There lie worlds between having talent and being born to make history. Worlds between what he is capable of at this point and Yuri Plisetsky who has become a legend by winning his seventh gold medal at the age of 18. There’s no day that Otabek doesn’t think about that in every detail and there’s no day that it doesn’t break his heart.

“Otabek, come and help me peeling the potatoes”, his mother calls from the kitchen and he gets up with another sigh. He is deft with his fingers so he’s good at peeling potatoes. He could win the gold medal at potato-peeling.

Sighing he realizes that at the age of 15 he has more or less given up already.

 

Belek stares at him. They meet in that one hidden corner of the school yard at lunch break every day. Belek is his cousin, two years older and for some reason Otabek’s only friend. “What the fuck, Beks”, he says, eyes wide.

Otabek can feel it himself. He makes a weird face. A _really_ weird face. Usually he doesn’t ever change his expression. Instead he looks grumpy all the time. When he’s happy, he looks grumpy. When he’s angry, he looks grumpy. When he’s grumpy… well. He was born with this expression, inherited it from his father, who even looks grumpy in the wedding photo that hangs in the dining room, huge and in a cherry wood frame that’s older than Otabek (like everything in the house). He always insists that it was the happiest day of his life – he doesn’t look like it at all.

So, Otabek is supposedly doomed to make that exact face all the time, forever, whatever occurs. But obviously something happened that caused an emotion so strong that his face moves. And indeed, he can feel it. He looks shocked.

“He retires?” His voice doesn’t sound like his at all, more like if some Disney sound engineer had tried to alter it to be the voice of one of those annoying Cinderella mice.

Belek grimaces. “Well, yeah, sounds like it.” He shrugs like Otabek’s world along with his hopes and dreams hasn’t just shattered onto the floor like delicate glass shoes. “It’s not official or something, I just heard it from Aslan who heard it from his second cousin who heard it from the sister of the boyfriend of that cute redhead of the Russian national team.” He smiles when he mentions Mila Babicheva. Literally everyone from ages 12 to 25 with the slightest interest in any sport performed in an ice rink between Vladivostok and Prague has a crush on Yuri Plisetsky’s best friend. Well, everyone except Otabek. Also, the hockey, speed skating, ice dance and figure skating world is a village and everyone is affiliated with anyone, so the information is most likely trustworthy. Otabek wants to cry.

“Apparently”, Belek continues, lighting a cigarette although it’s actually forbidden to smoke on the school ground, “he felt so uninspired after he had won _again_ ,”, he emphasizes the ‘again’ like winning the fourth world championship gold medal in a row is as annoying as the fifty-third call of a clingy ex-girlfriend, “that he decided to try coaching for next season.” He shrugs in a way that shows that it’s no big deal for him. It also shows he has no idea that it means the world to Otabek.

The word echoes in Otabek’s head: “Coaching, coaching, coaching...” The fragments (being his shattered hopes and dreams) float upwards from the floor, reassembling to look like a kaleidoscope, then a sparkling mobile, then Cinderella’s shoes again, then a crystal palace. He runs up the shimmering stairs towards the ballroom where Yuri Plisetsky waits for him, stretching out his hand invitingly, winking at him.

“Ey, Beks, where’re you going?”

He darts home without realizing that he skips biology class.

  


His father showed him how to ride a motorbike when he was eleven. It was no  real motorbike of course, just a small moped that still ran with leaded gasoline. It was still fun because it was fast, just like ice skating and he loved it and got the hang of it after mere minutes.

When he was 14 his father let him ride his real motorbike, “but don’t let your mother know!” Otabek nodded with an excited frown, then put on the helmet. The Honda Nighthawk 700 S, built 1985, was low enough for the short Altin legs and he rode it across the empty parking lot for over an hour, shifting up to the fifth gear in the end, which made him feel like he could reach the stars.

His mother found out, scowled him, scowled his father and forbade both of them to ever risk Otabek’s skating career again. Since then his father has been taking him to the empty parking lot whenever his mother is on a trip with her folk dance group. Which - luckily - is often.

She won’t be home until late today because they prepare for the summer festival a lot these days. His father is at work in the national park, so Otabek is home alone which is perfect for his idea. He doesn’t have a license of course but he doesn’t even think about it. He only thinks about how he can get to St. Petersburg as fast as possible. Not even changing out of his school uniform he throws some clothes into his backpack, the charger for his phone, toothpaste, Yuratchka (his teddy) and some Chebureki that are left over from yesterday’s dinner.

He writes his parents a quick note that he has to go see someone, please don’t call the police, I will be back tomorrow, it’s for my skating and off he is to the basement garage. He slips into the jacket, shoulders his backpack and with the helmet on after pushing the bike out of the roll-up shutter he leaves his home town behind.

It’s a nice sunny day and he admires the landscape rolling by, wide steppe and snowy mountains and small and big towns. In the afternoon, when he is somewhere in Russia already after crossing the border at a very small border station where they didn’t even check his papers, he takes a break and sitting under a blooming apple tree by the roadside he eats three of the five Chebureki he brought. They are filled with minced beef and cabbage and onions and he is perfectly happy.

As he keeps going and the kilometers fly by he imagines how he’s going to meet Yuri Plisetsky for the second time. Because they have met already, back then in that summer camp, when Otabek was ten and Yuri Plisetsky was thirteen and already a phenomenon. Otabek doesn’t expect his idol to remember, but _he_ certainly does. He looks forward to meeting him again. It’s better than waiting for Eid Al-Fitr (also because he doesn’t like sweets but everyone keeps giving him some for the Sweet Festival, so he doesn’t look forward to the festival _that_ much anyway).

Shortly before the sun sets he takes his second break, eating his remaining Chebureki while walking up and down the dusty road in the middle of nowhere to flex his limbs. He is still enthusiastic although his back and butt hurts a little from all the sitting. He doesn’t allow himself any weakness though, because he is used to pain from his training and Otabek Altin is no quitter. The problem is that it’s far from Almaty to St Petersburg. Really far. Like, really, really far. And who could have known that it’s still so cold in Russia? It’s May after all! That’s almost summer already!

He hangs on. Literally. His phone dies before his mother arrives home, but it’s no problem, he knows what he is doing and she can trust him. Thank God that he looked up where the rink in St. Petersburg is beforehand so after losing his way in the old capital a few times he finally arrives there. It’s the middle of the night (he can not check the exact time because his phone is dead), it’s freezing cold and he can’t feel his hands from the vibration of the handlebar. This is when he realizes that he made a mistake. It _is_ in the middle of the night. Yuri Plisetsky is not here.

Flabbergasted he stares at the huge building. Of course he is not here. Even if it was the middle of the day, he wouldn’t be here, _because he has retired_. He frowns, the helmet heavy between his weak hands.

“You’re stupid”, he murmurs, scrutinizing the ice arena. That’s it. His plan wasn’t really… planned out after all. He thinks about what to do now. He can’t go home. It’s cold and dark and he feels stiff like great-grandmother Altin. He has money for a cheap hotel (are there cheap hotels in St. Petersburg?), but he has no idea if there are any hotels open at… whatever time it is now.

As he stands there and thinks about if he has to sleep out in the open on a park bench or something (which might be a good idea because that way he can keep an eye on his father’s bike) he catches sight of the small guard station. It’s a booth attached to the main entrance of the rink and it’s brightly lit. Maybe someone in there can help him.

“Isn’t it a little late for young guys like you to go on a jaunt?”, an old mister in uniform greets him as he walks up to the booth.

“I’m looking for someone”, he starts, but the old man interrupts him with a raspy laugh.

“Don’t we all look for someone?”

Otabek nods, thinking about the philosophic interjection, then frowns. Maybe he has frowned all along, it really doesn’t matter.

“No, I mean, I’m really looking for someone”, he repeats. “Do you know where I  can find Yuri Plisetsky? He used to skate here.”

“He’s the blonde one, isn’t it?” The old man flips through the book in front of him. “He is on TV a lot lately, but I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Otabek feels his guts twist. What does that even mean, ‘in a while’? It’s been only six weeks since the world championships, how long has Yuri Plisetsky thought about retiring already?

“Here we have him”, the guard says and turns the book around to let Otabek see the address. Wondering if it’s not a little careless that the guard shows him such sensitive information he realizes that although now he knows _where_ to go, he has no idea _how_ to get there.

“Thank you”, he says and walks back to the bike. If he had his phone he could just look the way up online, but unless his battery hasn’t miraculously charged in the meantime, there’s no chance he can use the device. He tries to turn it on nevertheless but unsurprisingly all it does is light the small red LED in the upper right corner three times.

He looks up with a sigh. The street is still busy even at night here. It’s half past eleven, he’s seen it on the wall clock in the guard office. He doubts that there is a hotel open at this time. So he is in St. Petersburg, even found out Yuri Plisetsky’s address and still he doesn’t know how to reach him nor where to spend the night. It’s cold and he’s tired and a little hungry as well and actually he feels hopeless and scared now. As he watches the cars passing by he wishes that he could just call up one of those taxis and order it to take him home where his mother- wait!

Feeling excited with the idea Otabek runs over to the street, raising a hand when he sees a taxi approaching. It stops and he opens the passenger door.

“Good evening”, the driver says. He looks so much like Joseph Stalin that Otabek is a little perplex. “Where to?”

“Well”, Otabek says, trying to recollect his thoughts. “I am here with my motorbike, but I can’t find my way to that address I have, could you lead me the way so I can follow you on the bike?”

Stalin shrugs. “Do you pay in advance?”

Otabek nods. “If you want me to.”

“Fine then. Where is it?”

Otabek recites the address he has memorized from the book and the driver pinches 2500 rubles from him, then Otabek runs back to the bike and gets on. He wonders why no one questions that he owns a motorbike. Not even the guy at the gas station earlier today mentioned something. Some people say he doesn’t look his age so maybe they think he’s over 16 already.

The ride to the address takes not more than ten minutes and Otabek is so glad about it. He has a feeling that the taxi driver has charged him too much, but when Stalin rolls down his window and points at a house, Otabek is really, really thankful and waves the car good-bye.

He parks the bike next to the curb that surrounds a chestnut tree (he’s quite sure that it’s a chestnut tree at least, but biology has never been his best subject) and secures it with the chain. Then he heads over to the door.

The house is old, light gray, with high slender windows. Some of them are lit. It looks really homey, and just now he realizes how much his body actually hurts and how exhausted he is. Exhausted and very, very cold.

He looks at the brazen door bell nameplates, half expecting that the name he is looking for is not there. His heart skips a beat when he reads _Katsuki, Nikiforov, Plisetsky_. It’s here, he’s here. He made it!

Biting his lower lip so that it doesn’t tremble in excitement he presses the button for the door bell. After some seconds the buzzer can be heard. He can not believe his luck that Yuri Plisetsky is still awake and that he’s letting him in.

He presses the door open, finding himself in a very neat staircase with light turquoise tiles and whitewashed walls. But he doesn’t even notice his surroundings as he hastens up the wooden stairs with a heavily beating heart. Finally he’s going to meet him again. Just some more stairs and he’s there and he can ask him to become his coach. He hears a door being opened somewhere higher up and furrows his brows in excitement. Only a few more seconds! When turning around the corner of the stairs he sees the open door, there is someone in the door frame, he looks up and-

It’s not Yuri Plisetsky.

Otabek is a little confused, freezes on the last step of the stairway. The person in the door seems just as irritated, looking at him with bright blue eyes and a surprised smile.

“Viktor Nikiforov”, Otabek says unintentionally.

The silver-haired man beams a heart-shaped smile at him. “That’s right”, he chimes. “And who might you be, stranger in the night?”

“Otabek”, he says. He is intimidated, but at the same time realizes what he read on the nameplate downstairs. There was not only Plisetsky written but also Nikiforov and-

“Who is it?”, a voice with an exotic accent says, then a black-haired man appears next to Viktor Nikiforov. Yuuri Katsuki.

Otabek knows he’s staring and that it’s not appropriate, but there’s nothing he can do, as realization hits him like a hammer on his head.

They all live together. He has heard rumors about that. At least about Viktor Nikiforov and his fiancé from Japan. But to encounter them when he has only expected Yuri Plisetsky is pretty overwhelming.

“It’s Otabek”, Viktor Nikiforov says like they are old friends. It doesn’t even seem to bother Yuuri Katsuki.

“Are you an acquaintance of Yurio?”, the Japanese asks in weirdly pronounced but grammatically correct Russian and Otabek shakes his head, then nods, clutching the helmet hard.

He’s not exactly a friend of ‘Yurio’, which is Yuri Plisetsky’s nickname to distinguish him from Yuuri Katsuki whose name sounds very similar after all. But he’s not a total stranger either. He’s his biggest fan and maybe will be his protégé soon as well.

“Yurio”, Viktor calls into the apartment. “Otabek is here for you!”

It takes a moment, then, with a low “What the-”, he is here.

Otabek is stunned. To be honest he was before, but he is clearly even stunned-er now.

Yuri Plisetsky is tall. And blonde. Lean. Pale. And so incredibly gorgeous that Otabek is afraid he’ll crumble into dust because he can’t stand it. He’s just like on TV only a bazillion times more beautiful. His eyes are as green as Lake Balquash and his eyebrows an elegant curve like a calligraphy in pure white gold as he looks at him. His lips, shimmering like dew on pastel pink rose petals, open and with his dark silky-smooth voice he says: “Don’t know who that freak is, piss off or I’ll call the cops, fucking creep.”

Both Yuuri Katsuki and Viktor Nikiforov look slightly confused. Otabek on the contrary isn’t confused at all. He isn’t shocked either. Nor devastated. His mind goes completely blank.

He has thought about what to do if Yuri Plisetsky refuses his wish. That has been a possibility from the beginning. He’s an airhead (at least that’s what his mother always says), but he is not stupid. And on the way here he had _a lot_ of time coming up with a plot for how to convince the Russian legend to become his coach. He is pretty confident that whatever Yuri Plisetsky holds against him, he can counter and make him his coach in the end. It has never come to his mind though that Yuri Plisetsky wouldn’t even hear him out. That he doesn’t even have a chance to convince him, _not even_ the chance to tell him what he’s here for.

So he watches as his idol grimaces, then, like in slow motion, turns around to disappear into the apartment, disappears from Otabek’s reach.

If this was a movie, or a novel, or a theater play, or a TV show, he’d run over to him, grab the fragile, delicate, fair-skinned wrist to make him stop, to make him turn around and look him in the eye. Everything would be a little blurry and the camera would only capture their figures close to each other. Someone would tint the angle a light pink in the post-production, which would be a little too much, but it’d emphasize how meaningful the scene is. “Be my coach”, he’d say, his voice steady and deep and Yuri Plisetsky couldn’t deny him his wish and would smile a dreamy smile.

Needless to say nothing like that happens. Instead he stands there like he’s frozen on the spot, the helmet shaking a little between his tensed fingers. He’s watching as his idol walks almost out of sight, taking his hope with him. He knows he has to say something, he’s running out of time. Yuri Plisetsky is leaving and he doesn’t have the opportunity for long explanations now, so he just blurts out: “Be my coach!” He sounds embarrassingly desperate, and God knows, he is!

Viktor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki first look at each other, then back at Yuri Plisetsky. The blonde has stopped in his way. He turns back towards him very slowly.

“Coach?”, he repeats. It sounds like a threat.

With sped-up heartbeat Otabek clutches the helmet harder until he feels that it might break any moment. “Please”, he adds, his voice going up at the end like it’s a question.

The look in the cold green eyes becomes a little amused as the Russian Fairy steps out of the door, the other two making way for him like he’s a dangerous animal. “Who said I’d become a coach for some obscure...”, he looks Otabek up and down from only a few steps away; the Kazakh can vividly imagine what a tiger’s prey feels like right now, “...teenager.”

It’s funny how he uses the term as an insult, considering that he’s technically still a teenager himself. Otabek frowns. “Belek”, he replies. “And he heard it from his friend Aslan who heard it from his second cousin who heard it from the sister of-”

Yuri Plisetsky holds up his palm in a majestic gesture that makes the smaller Kazakh fall silent respectfully.

‘He’s really formidable’, Otabek thinks entranced.

“Go home.” Yuri Plisetsky’s hand is still in the air. Then it moves rapidly towards Otabek’s direction until the long, slender index finger of his right hand points right at his forehead like a long claw. “I don’t think we need someone else wasting my time... loser.” He turns on his heels, marching away.

Again Otabek misses the chance to grab the delicate, slender wrist, still, he can’t help but think that it’s a good thing because maybe it’d make the Russian angry. So all he can do is explain: “I won’t!” He hunches his shoulders. It hurts a little because his body is so awfully stiff from the long ride here. “I came all the way from Almaty to find you. I will not return home defeated!”

“You’re a stalker”, Yuri Plisetsky says with a shrug, leaning against the door frame.

“Yurio, don’t be that mean”, Yuuri Katsuki says, then adds: “Where’s Almaty?”

Viktor Nikiforov answers with another question: “The Almaty in Kazakhstan?”

When Otabek nods they stare at him in disbelief.

“You came all the way from _Kazakhstan_?” Yuuri Katsuki sounds shocked. “With a motorcycle?” He is pointing at the helmet and the leather jacket Otabek is equipped with and again the boy nods.

To be honest he feels very weak now. He is tired beyond belief and chilled through. If his legs would give in under him it wouldn’t surprise him.

“Where do you stay tonight?”, Viktor Nikiforov asks.

This time Otabek shrugs. He’ll have to think about that later in detail.

“What?!”, Yuri Plisetsky spits when the other two look at him.

“We can not let him go like that”, Yuuri Katsuki says, making Viktor nod with shining eyes.

“It’s the middle of the night and it’s freezing cold. Look at him, he shivers like a leaf.”

“Maybe he’ll learn from it”, Yuri Plisetsky replies with a smirk.

“But he came all the way to see you”, Yuuri Katsuki insists.

Now the blonde glares at him. “I didn’t ask him to do it!” He endures the reproachful looks from his roommates only for some seconds, then throws his hands up in a dramatic gesture. “Fine then!”, he exclaims and enters the apartment. “Let’s take any stray bear cub in like we run a fucking orphanage!”

Yuuri Katsuki and Viktor Nikiforov beam him their signature smiles.

Otabek feels _so_ relieved.

 

Only minutes later he finds himself in a big, clean kitchen. It looks vintage, but in perfect condition and from the appliances he can tell that despite the old feel it’s actually very modern.

A huge brown dog walks into the room as Yuuri Katsuki shoves him onto a chair.

“That’s Makkachin, he’s big, but really dear.” Viktor Nikiforov twirls from the cupboard to the sink to another cupboard to prepare tea. “You can pet him if you want. You’re not afraid of dogs, are you?”

Otabek shakes his head and touches the curly fur of the massive poodle. It’s wiry and fluffy and the dog looks at him like they are best friends already.

On the other side of the kitchen Yuri Plisetsky leans against the counter, busy with his smartphone. He wears black leggings and an oversized violet sweater with leopard printed hem that has slid off one of his well-defined shoulders. Otabek can tell that there’s no shirt underneath. The blonde hair is untied, thick strands of dangling white gold, like sunlight on a winter morning. He smells good as well, Otabek caught a glimpse of his scent, when he followed him to the kitchen after Yuuri Katsuki took the helmet and leather jacket from him. Otabek admires him from the corner of his eyes while he pets Makkachin. There’s this strange feeling in his lower belly, beneath the navel, deep inside. It’s like a ticklish knot that tugs on his chest as well. It’s very awkward, but he likes it. He notices details like the slightly pursed lips and the skin colored nail polish and for the first time realizes that he might have a serious crush on Yuri Plisetsky.

“Is that the uniform of your school?” Yuuri Katsuki asks with a friendly smile and Otabek sits up again. His back is killing him and he can hardly avoid a painful groan. It feels like someone cuts his spine open with a blunt knife from his lower back all the way up to his nape. He tries to maintain his usual frown, but something seems visible on his face, so Yuuri Katsuki inquires: “Are you okay?”

Even the short nod hurts, the sudden movement giving him a cramp. “The ride here was a little… exhausting”, he murmurs. For some reason it makes Yuri Plisetsky snort.

“Oh, I wish I could pour you a bath”, Viktor Nikiforov cuts in, placing a teapot and four cups in the middle of the table. They seem to have tea a lot, there’s a small bowl of sugar there already as well as a little jar of dark red jam with a teaspoon attached to it. “But we only have hot water until midnight, so you are a little too late.”

His smile is too bright for Otabek and the boy frowns. “I’ll be fine”, he replies, imagining how it would be to bathe in Yuri Plisetsky’s tub. The thought makes the tips of his ears turn red and he welcomes the distraction of Viktor Nikiforov handing him a cup before sitting down as well.

“Don’t you want to join with us?”, Yuuri Katsuki asks in Yuri Plisetsky’s direction and the Russian Fairy looks up from his phone.

“Give me a second to consider that, no”, he says without even taking the second to consider that.

“You are so funny”, Viktor says, unimpressed, and pours a fourth cup nevertheless, pushing it towards the remaining empty chair. “I made rooibos caramel, it’s your favourite.”

With a grunt Yuri Plisetsky throws his phone onto the table and heads over to the fridge to fetch some cream. When he slumps down onto the empty chair Otabek realizes they sit beside each other.

Close up Yuri Plisetsky is even more beautiful. His skin has a soft golden hue like ivory and it looks so smooth. His hands pouring cream into the brown tea are delicate and fragile, the bones moving elegantly under the fair skin. Along his wrists Otabek can see light blue veins that run up his beautiful-

“Stop gawking, asshole”, the Russian Fairy interrupts his thoughts and he bobs his head up to realize everyone is looking at him: Yuri Plisetsky with slight disgust crinkling his pretty nose, Yuuri Katsuki and Viktor Nikiforov smiling like they are watching some kind of baby animal. Even the dog stares at him.

Otabek feels the blush blooming on his cheeks.

“So.” Viktor shovels a mountain of jam into his tea. “You came because you heard that our lovely Yurio here is planning on coaching instead of skating himself next season?”

Otabek nods, clinging on his cup like it’s an anchor.

“Don’t teach him that, I will not go by such a stupid name!”, Yuri Plisetsky interrupts angrily and glares at his senior who completely ignores him.

“I didn’t know you made it public already”, the older Russian continues, placing the tip of his index finger under his lower lip.

“I bet it was Mila”, the blonde suspects. “She must have spilled the beans somewhere, that ugly hag just can’t keep her fucking mouth shut.”

“Anyway”, Viktor Nikiforov continues, looking over to Otabek again. “So you are a figure skater as well?”

Again Otabek nods, but doesn’t have a chance to say something as his idol interrupts.

“He’s from the junior division, Kazakh nationals’ winner, worlds bronze medalist. Otabek Altin, fifteen years old and not a single gold medal. How am I supposed to coach something like that?”

Being called some _thing_ hurts a little and Otabek comes to think that Yuri Plisetsky isn’t the fairy he pretends to be in public. Sure, his looks are adorable but unless he has an unusually bad day his character isn’t adorable at all. That doesn’t stop Otabek’s heart from skipping a beat though when his hero cites his achievements.

“You know about me?”, he breathes, his brows furrowing. He doesn’t know how but it seems that this one time the cosmos is lenient and senpai has noticed him.

The glare Yuri Plisetsky shoots him is like a green laser. “I fucking googled it, dumbass!”

The sound of his breaking heart is inaudible for the rest of them but it shakes Otabek violently. Then again Yuri Plisetsky, Russian Fairy and Ice Tiger, a living legend and his idol for as long as he can remember, has bothered to google him. This is the best day of his entire life!

“And?”, Yuuri Katsuki smiles like he is up to something.

“‘And’ what?”, Yuri Plisetsky barks.

“Are you going to try?”

The blonde head is tilted in disbelief. “Of course not!”, Yuri Plisetsky spits back. “I’m going to coach someone with a chance. Someone with potential. Someone who is capable of winning gold next season.”

“In other words,”, Yuuri Katsuki continues, slowly, like a cutting knife, “someone who’s already good enough to win gold, even without your help.”

For the first time since the conversation started Yuri Plisetsky doesn’t seem to know what to say.

“You’ve become lazy, Yurio”, Viktor Nikiforov joins in next to his financé. “The old you would have accepted the challenge. But I guess”, he sips on his tea for a dramatic pause, “your success made you a feeble old toad.”

First the younger Russian’s complexion becomes pale as a ghost’s, then it turns red as a beet within a split second. “I beg you pardon?!”, he hisses, his knuckles white as he clings on the mug, just like Otabek does, but for different reasons.

“You’re being rude, Vitya”, Yuuri Katsuki rebukes. Then he addresses Yuri Plisetsky again. “But he’s right, Yurio. Pussing out is usually not your style. And why won’t you give the boy a chance. He came all the way from Alma- _naninani_ … All the way from Kazakhstan to ask you to become his coach. He’s so determined. And don’t you always say that strength is sooo important to become a first-class skater?” He smiles, but he is clearly the devil, Otabek realizes.

“Strength is _nothing_ without beauty!” Yuri Plisetsky objects. He sits back and crosses his arms. “I mean look at him, he’s - _maybe_ \- a little cute, but that’s it.”

Otabek clears his throat. “I am still here, you know”, he murmurs, but obviously no one cares.

It’s Viktor Nikiforov’s turn again. “So what you say,”, he states like he’s reading out a closing argument in a trial, “is that you want a gold nugget, polish it and be proud of yourself when it shines in the end.” His silver eyebrows rise. “That’s weak.”

You can see the wrath boil in Yuri Plisetsky. It wouldn’t surprise Otabek if the Ice Tiger grew fangs and pounced over the table to eat Viktor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki alive any moment. But instead his idol exhales audibly and smiles a frightening smile. “Fiiiine”, he says, the ‘i’ stretched so that it sounds like a real feline’s growl. He rocks his chair backwards and forwards, then turns his head to give Otabek a threatening look. “You can stay. I’ll give you a chance, Otabek. But don’t expect me to go easy on you. If you disappoint me, I’ll kick your little ass, you got it?”

Otabek nods. His shoulders hurt. His back hurts, and his legs and his head, basically everything, but his heart is so light and so warm that he doesn’t even notice the pain. “Thank you, Mr Plisetsky”, he says.

On the other side of the table Yuuri Katsuki and Viktor Nikiforov burst out in laughter.

“‘Mr Plisetsky’, that’s so cute!”, Yuuri Katsuki chuckles and Viktor Nikiforov reaches over the table to dishevel Otabek’s hair. “You can use our first names, you know, feel free to call him Yurio.”

“You will _not_ call me Yurio!” He snorts. “For you it’s Yuri. Actually, for everyone it’s Yuri.”

Otabek nods when Viktor Nikiforov’s - no, Viktor’s fingers are out of his hair again. “Okay”, he says in his low, steady voice that goes so well with his stern expression and frown. “Thank you… Yuri.”

For some reason a light blush appears on Yuri’s pointy nose. The Russian Fairy focuses on his tea. “Yeah, whatever...”

Otabek sips on his tea. It’s really tasty and the warmth thaws his still chilled through body. Maybe that feeling- no, it’s definitely the tea!

“Can I”, he begins hesitating, then changes the wording so he doesn’t sound like a sissy. “I need to call my mom.”

“The phone is in the hallway”, Viktor chirps and with a nod Otabek gets up and leaves the kitchen.

His parents are most likely asleep so it takes some time for someone to pick up.

“Altin”, his mother says slowly.

“Altin as well”, he answers, ready for the scowl of his life. It doesn’t come.

“It’s half past three”, she says with a yawn. “Where are you? You have school tomorrow.”

“I know…” His voice  trails off. He usually doesn’t skip classes for his skating. He’s reasonable and therefore he knows how important his education is, long-term. Leaving Almaty this morning has been the first impulse-triggered action for a thousand years. But this is important to him. And he won’t give Yuri Pli... - Yuri! - a reason to send him away again. So he explains: “I’m in St. Petersburg. Right now I’m at Yuri Plisetsky’s apartment and he wants me to prove that I’m worthy of him as my coach.”

His mother is silent, but only for a second. “Say what now?”

He sighs. There’s a shadow coming from the kitchen door and from where a feisty conversation can be heard and it’s the dog, walking up to him like a big, friendly, cappuccino-colored cloud. He pets Makkachin while explaining to his mother. Feeling the fluffy fur under his shaking fingers is soothing. “I heard that Yuri Plisetsky might look for a protegé for next season, so I went over to appear in person.”

“You took your father’s bike”, she states.

“Yes, I did. I know how to ride it, you know…”

“Yes, he confessed to me already.” She’s not even salty, a fact that makes Otabek wonder what kind of hell his father has gone through already to leave her so calm and composed. “Like father, like son. That I fell in love with him because he was so wild and untamed doesn’t mean I’ll tolerate my son to become just like that, you know.”

“Yes”, he says. He considers himself neither wild nor untamed, but he really doesn’t want to put her patience to the test, so he doesn’t object.

“So, this Plisetsky has you stay overnight and makes you skate so he can decide if he wants to take you in?”

“Yes.”

“Is he a pervert?”

“Mother!”, he hisses and shoots a glance towards the half open kitchen door to make sure no one heard her question. “Of course he’s not! You know him, he’s an angel.” Well, actually he isn’t but this is not the time to tell her that.

“So I don’t have to worry about some Russian child molester to take advantage of my little son?”

“I’m not a child, mother”, he says with a painful frown.

“You’re 15, Otabek”, she corrects him. “And you are a hundred percent sure that I _don’t_ have to be worried?”

“Yes, mother, I am.” Makkachin looks up to him and it looks like he is smiling.

“When will you return home?”, she asks and Otabek’s heart feels really light now because she doesn’t insist that he comes home right away.

“I don’t know yet, I think we will go to the rink tomorrow so I can convince him.”

His mother sighs. “So, I’ll pray that you won’t come home tomorrow because he sent you away, although I’d rather have you come home immediately?”

“Yes”, he says, the smile audible in his voice. “Thanks mother.”

“Take care”, she says, then: “Good-night, Otabek. Tell this Plisetsky if he lays a finger on you I’ll personally murder him.”

“Yes, mother.” She hangs up and he does as well.

Makkachin blinks at him and trots back to the kitchen, like he is leading him the way, but Otabek needs a moment to process what has happened today. He stands in the middle of Yuri “living legend” Plisetsky’s hallway, who wants him to prove that he is worthy, his mother is totally okay with that (as much as she can be at least) and his legs and back and shoulders and head and hands and ankles hurt like hell so he’ll most likely screw up completely tomorrow; but the pain also makes him realize that this is no dream, because dreams don’t hurt. It’s true. It’s fucking true (it’s only in his head but this is quite certainly the first time he used a proper swear word. It makes him so proud of himself.)

Back in the kitchen he encounters silence. Like before Yuuri and Victor look happy and Yuri looks extremely pissed.

The Ice Tiger gets up from his chair and looks at him disgusted, then turns towards the doorway. “Get over here and help me arrange your nest, bear cub”, he snorts and Otabek follows him to the living room, not mentioning that bears have tads, not nests.

The living room is Japanese style, all with tatami and a low table with thick cushions. There’s even a calligraphy on the wall and Otabek assumes that the meaning is ‘love’ or ‘patience’ or ‘trust’ (he learns later that it means ‘pork cutlet bowl’).

He recognizes the problem in an instant: there is no sofa.

“You know”, Yuuri says with a smile, having tagged along with Viktor in tow as if they are attached to each other like a shadow to a man. “Makkachin sleeps under the table and he’s really a good one, really, but he gets easily excited about visitors.”

“So we thought that we’d rather accommodate you in Yurio’s room”, Viktor finishes the explanation. He’s smiling as well, like they don’t know any other facial expression. Otabek can’t help but think that’s a little strange.

“You thought that, not me!”, Yuri growls, picking up the cushions and shoving them against Otabek’s chest a little aggressively. “If I were to decide, I’d let him stay in here and have Makkachin gnaw on his skull all night.”

Otabek’s arms ache under the cushions. “I really don’t want to be a bother”, he murmurs.

“Oh, you are not a bother”, Viktor says.

“Oh yes, you _are_ a bother”, Yuri replies.

“Oh _no_ . You are _not_ a bother”, Yuuri insists. He is still smiling, but his voice is threatening so Yuri hisses like a cat and shoves another cushion into his arms. Afterwards he heads over to the closet to take out a woolen blanket and stomps over towards the corridor. Otabek follows him wordlessly, the Japanese and his shadow staying behind with the dog.

The door to Yuri’s room flies open and at first Otabek doesn’t know if he’s supposed to enter. He feels like he is invading Yuri’s private space. This is the room of his idol that he has fantasized about for such a long time (that is, the room _and_ his idol). It’s like entering Yuri’s sanctuary. And he is not quite sure if he is ready for it.

A barked “Davai!” makes him hurry inside the Fairy’s lair though where he looks around in awe, clinging to the cushions.

The walls are white, surprisingly enough, but the rest is a chaotic mixture of violets, blacks and animal print. The wide bed has violet leopard printed sheets, the curtains are black and the light herringbone parquet is floured with clothes like a black and red and tiger striped snow blanket. It looks like Yuri and it smells like Yuri. It’s heaven.

“Put that over here”, Yuri orders and kicks the clothes on the floor aside while throwing the blanket he’s carried onto the bed. His legs are really long and athletic.

With a nod Otabek bends down to arrange the cushions he’s carrying. The motion causes his entire body to cramp and although he tries to bite it back he moans lowly because of the pain.

“You’re a jackass”, Yuri says, so Otabek looks up. The Russian fairy looks back at him with his hands on his hips. He’ll make a great coach with that cocky attitude. “Are your muscles sore from the long ride on the bike here?” When Otabek nods he smirks. “The price to pay, boy. Why didn’t you take a plane?”

“Too expensive”, Otabek answers a little intimidated. Yuri looks so handsome from down here. “I didn’t want to waste time waiting for an affordable ticket. You could have chosen someone else in the meantime.”

A golden eyebrow rises. “No complaints about your devotion”, Yuri says. “How long did it take though? Twelve hours? Thirteen hours?”

A short calculation later Otabek says: “A little more than fourteen. Breaks not included.”

“Jesus fucking Christ”, Yuri exclaims, then crouches down next to him and helps him getting the cushions in order. “As an athlete you really should take care of your body more. It’s your implement after all. Nothing a massage can’t fix though.” When the cushions resemble a lying surface Yuri shoots him a weird glance. “Take your clothes off.”

For an answer Otabek stares at him with a shocked frown.

“Do I have to repeat myself?” Yuri says and there is that tiny blush on his nose tip again.

“But I just got to know you”, Otabek objects. He’s actually fine with Yuri doing anything to him, it’s just a little sudden.

“A massage!” Yuri’s face is pink now. “I’m giving you a massage so you don’t skate like a goddamn turtle on two steak knives tomorrow!” He snorts. “-the fuck! You’re not even my type.”

Otabek is not sure about what to say now, but Yuri is up and leaves for the bathroom, so he just stays in place until the fairy is back with a towel and a bottle of massage oil. Otabek supposes it’s massage oil at least. Could be lubricant as well.

“So?” Yuri looks down on him again. He’s still _so_ pretty!

Without a word Otabek peels himself out of his dark blue woolen knit pullover with the crest of his school on it, folds it thoroughly (because his mother would insist that he does), then unbuttons his white shirt. His shoulders and arms hurt when he strips it over his head and when he folds it, too. He still wears his fine rib undershirt, looking up to Yuri a little embarrassed.

“Okay, I confess,”, Yuri says grimacing, “maybe you are my type, but _this_ ruins everything, forever.”

Otabek blushes, then strips off the shirt as well, folds it and puts it on top of the rest of his clothes. When Yuri orders “Lay down” he does so, on his stomach of course. He hisses when Yuri pours the cold oil onto his skin. Otabek thinks that Yuri does it on purpose to torture him and imagines his vicious grin. Still pretty.

It turns out that Yuri is really talented at giving massages. His hands work magic on his aching back and shoulders, then his arms. “Legs as well?”, he suspects and Otabek blushes hard and wriggles out of his trousers when ordered, pressing his flushed face into the cushions as Yuri starts pressing his wonderful fairy fingers into his stiff and sore tights. It feels sooo good and the thought that it’s Yuri “most beautiful creature on this planet” Plisetsky who’s touching him all over his body gives Otabek a hard time holding his arousal at bay.

“Great, now my fingers hurt”, Yuri mutters after some minutes and when Otabek turns his head he notices that the blonde Russian sits back on his heels and scrutinizes his body. “I hope you don’t disappoint me tomorrow, you owe me for that now”, he murmurs and wipes his oily hands on Otabek’s undershirt before adding: “At least you are in good shape.”

Otabek feels like he’s about to die. Was that a hallucination right now? Did Yuri really say that his body is not a total letdown? Is this a dream? Is he dead and this is really heaven?

Oblivious of the storm he let loose in the Kazakh chest Yuri gets up and grabs the towel he brought from the bathroom as well. He throws it onto Otabek’s head. “Wipe the oil off and then let’s get some sleep, I think you need it.”

Otabek sits up and nods. It’s not too easy to wipe one’s own back, but he manages, mostly because his muscles really feel a lot better now. He’s still feeling cold, like his core is deep frozen, but that’s probably from the exhaustion so it’ll hopefully go away as soon as he rests.

When he’s done he excuses himself to the hallway where he left his backpack. The rest of the apartment is dark now but he hears low voices and giggling from the other end of the corridor, likely Viktor and Yuuri in their bedroom. Feeling like a creep he hurries back to Yuri’s room so that he doesn’t overhear anything that’s rated M.

Back there the view of the blonde beauty in nothing but tight panties awaits him (rated T, maybe higher). Yuri’s in front of the closet, searching it for something to sleep in. Otabek himself usually _first_ chooses his pajama and _then_ undresses, but obviously there’s a cultural difference between Kazakhstan and Russia when it comes to that. So he stands there in nothing but boxers himself and admires the elegantly curved spine under porcelain skin, slender hips that shift from right to left as Yuri turns his head, small pink nipples (he thinks that he’s about to faint any moment), beautifully toned abs-

“What the hell, Otabek, are you a fucking peeper or what?”

His head bobs up from Yuri’s tight panties and he shakes his head slowly although his blush tells a different story. Swallowing a whine he hurries over to his nest (“Tad!”, he corrects himself mentally) and opens his backpack. Only then he realizes that he really was in a hurry this morning. He has a fresh pair of boxers, four pairs of socks, one single sock, a rain cape, his comb (two teeth missing), jeans, tooth paste (no brush), his textbooks for maths, geography and history, the phone charger and Yuratchka, the plush bear. There’s no shirt to sleep in. He looks over to his neatly folded undershirt that is not neatly folded anymore after Yuri wiped his oily hands on it. He stares at it, pondering if he can still wear it, only for the night, when Yuri asks:

“Do you have a shirt or something to sleep in?”

Otabek turns to him. Yuri wears a worn-out pastel pink t-shirt with a faded big cat skull and flowers print now. Ninety percent sure ladies’ fashion. He rolls his eyes when Otabek hesitantly shakes his head, then plucks a shirt out of his closet. “Here”, he says, tossing the black shirt onto Otabek’s head. He seems to like throwing stuff at him. “Take care, that’s one of my favourites.”

Unfolding it with due respect Otabek recognizes the shirt immediately. Yuri bought it in Marseilles last season and posted a selfie in it on his SNS. It’s loosely cut and has dark gray tiger stripes printed on the sleeves only. The boy admires it for a second and has to bring up all the self-control he has left not to inhale Yuri’s scent from it when he pulls it over his head. He saved the selfie to his phone and now he’s wearing that exact same shirt. He feels very honored.

“What do you have in your backpack if there’s not even a fucking shirt?”, Yuri jokes, then makes his way over to him. He switches the bed lamp on then walks over to switch the overhead lamp off just as the boy says “Stuff”. When he returns towards the bed he peeks into the backpack. Otabek tries to change the angle of the opening inconspicuously so that Yuri doesn’t see, but it’s too late already. The next second the pale slender fingers reach into the backpack and drag Yuratchka out of it.

“Whaaaat theee heeell?! Is that supposed to be a cat?” Yuri’s laughter sounds like an angelic choir to him, well, usually. But if there’s one thing that Otabek can’t stand, it’s someone making fun of Yuratchka. Not even when it’s Yuri. _Especially_ not when it’s Yuri!

“He’s a bear”, Otabek says with a frown as Yuri sinks down on his nest laughing. Tad. Whatever, that doesn’t matter now!

“Nooo”, Yuri laughs, holding Yuratchka up for closer inspection. “That’s a cat. A terribly ugly one, but a cat.”

“He’s not a cat!”, Otabek’s brows furrow. “And he’s not ugly!”

“He is, look”, Yuri turns the plush toy around. “Ugly, but unmistakably a cat. Have you never seen a cat in your life?”

“He has all the features a bear has”, Otabek points out. “He has round ears, button eyes-”

“A pointy snout, just like a cat.”

“Cats don’t have round ears.”

“Some big cats do.” Yuri hugs the bear close. “Lions and tigers and pumas to name a few. There are some domesticated breeds with round ears as well. American curls for example. They are super cute and have a very playful character.” He looks down at Yuratchka and smiles. “Are you a little puma?”

Otabek’s heart stops beating. This is the most heartwarming thing he has ever seen in his life: Yuri cradling his Yuratchka. He wants the time to stop. He wants to eat him. He wants to cry. He has a crush on Yuri, like, _so hard_!

“Aren’t you a little old for plush dolls?”, Yuri asks, then chuckles and looks up to his bed where two dozens of plush cats, tigers, lions and leopards are lined up along the wall like in a toy shop. “Then again, I guess I’m the last person to judge you. What’s his name?”

The question comes too sudden for Otabek to make up something convincing. “Yu-Yuratchka”, he confesses in a low voice.

Green eyes dart towards him. “Yuratchka.” Yuri’s voice sounds like he’s saying the name for the first time. “That’s how my grandfather used to call me. What a funny coincidence.” He looks at Otabek like a feline predator looks at its prey before pouncing at it. “It’s not a coincidence I suppose.”

Otabek moves his head in a way that can be interpreted as a nod but also not as a nod. In the end he decides to be honest though. It’s so obvious after all. “Well, I was a fan of you at that time”, he says with a shrug. He doesn’t stand the look anymore and shifts his gaze towards the bear. Yuri’s hands hold the plush toy gently and Otabek blushes. The pale skin on the caramel brown fake fur looks really pretty. Everything about Yuri seems to be pretty.

“Here”, the blonde beauty smiles and holds Yuratchka out to him. “Let’s finally sleep, I’m tired as fuck.”

Otabek takes the bear and lays down as Yuri shoves the woolen blanket onto him, wraps it around his tired limbs like a cocoon.

“Night”, Yuri says, then switches the light off.

Otabek thought, dead tired as he is, that once he lays down it wouldn’t even take a second until he falls asleep. But he was at fault there. Instead he lies awake, listening to the strange sounds of a St. Petersburg night, in Yuri’s bedroom, in Yuri’s shirt, next to Yuri who’s asleep already. He’s so excited but a little worried as well. What if he can’t convince Yuri tomorrow? What if he’s not good enough? What if Yuri sends him away again?

“Believe in yourself”, he whispers into the darkness, pretending it’s Yuratchka who said it. He’s buried his nose in the brown fur and the bear mutes his voice. Not enough though it seems.

“I said, sleep”, Yuri says from up there and Otabek winces.

“Okay”, he says, pressing his eyes shut with a frown. He was so sure that Yuri’s fallen asleep already, the Russian’s breathing was so calm.

“Is it comfortable down there?”, Yuri asks after a moment. His voice is low and sounds mellow and soft.

“Yes”, Otabek answers, although it’s not true. The cushions are not thick enough to not make him feel every rib as he repositions himself a little.

“Liar.”

“I’m alright.” He’ll survive the night, he survived the ride here, so this is a piece of cake.

There’s the ruffling sound of the sheets of Yuri’s bed to be heard and then the Russian Fairy’s voice again: “Come up here.”

Otabek doesn’t move. He’s quite sure he misheard something there.

The sigh that’s audible from above sounds very annoyed. “I said, come up here, for God’s sake, are you deaf?”

Hesitantly, but also relieved that he doesn’t have to stay on the floor, Otabek sits up. His eyes are used to the dark by now and he perceives Yuri who has lifted one corner of the blanket for him to crawl under. Struggling to keep his breathing calm if not his heartbeat he crawls up to lie on the mattress, his arms still wrapped around Yuratchka. The mattress moves weirdly under him and he sits stiff.

“Ah, yeah, waterbed, forgot to mention”, Yuri murmurs, sounding only one-third-awake now. “Come on, I wanna sleep.”

Obediently Otabek lays down at the edge of the bed. He tries to keep away as far as possible from Yuri, because he really doesn’t want to invade his private space a millimeter more. He’s way too close already. So he lies parallel to the edge of the mattress, a glimpse of his heels and butt sticking out as Yuri lets the blanket fall over them. He doesn’t even use the pillow and he is kind of proud, but only until Yuri sighs his extremely annoyed sigh again (probably along with a roll of his eyes) and says: “Seriously, Otabek, get yourself together. This is just as uncomfortable for me as it is for you. We both need to be well-rested tomorrow, so do me a fucking favor and place your head on the motherfucking pillow or I’ll throw you back on the floor again.”

The Kazakh boy is very sure that his blush can be seen even in the darkness of the bedroom, because it feels like a goddamn glow wire on his cheeks. Without  letting go of Yuratchka, who feels like he’s the only physical connection to his sanity right now, he wriggles closer, the waterbed shifting weirdly under his caterpillar-y movements.

He hasn’t come closer more than a handspan when Yuri yells “Not like that!”, making Otabek freeze. “Holy fucking Mother of fucking Christ, turn the fuck around!”

Otabek is relieved indeed. Lying face to face with Yuri, drinking up the fairy’s breath all night, trying to spot the delicate features of the Sleeping Beauty (the gleam of his eyes is so familiar a gl- _stop singing_!), well, all of that wouldn’t have made it easy for him to rest. So with a neutral “Okay” he rolls over to lie on his left side, caterpillaring his way backwards until he can feel the corner of the pillow under his ear.

He sighs contently and relaxes. Why has no one ever told him that waterbeds are so comfortable? It’s like stretching out on clouds, he thinks as he feels sleep finally taking over his tired body and mind, warm clouds, or jelly, yeah, more like when his mother cooks jelly and it’s cooling down until it has just the right temperature to lay down on it, sink into it, holding Yuratchka close and there’s this wonderful scent, a boyish scent, so wonderful, like once upon a dream-

“Good Night, Otabek”, Yuri says all of a sudden. His breath is on Otabek’s neck, who startles awake now. Yuri’s voice is so close. His very low, slurry, sexy voice, _oh my God, how close is he_?!!

He learns in every maddening detail when the Russian shifts behind him and suddenly he feels an ambrosial mess of long silky hair shoved against his neck. Otabek’s poor martyred heart is entirely out of control now and he tenses up, shivers and clings onto Yuratchka while holding his breath in order not to make a move or sound that attracts attention.

Plot twist: it makes things worse!

“You’re shaking like a fucking leaf”, Yuri murmurs. Otabek feels the words on his skin more than he hears them. He wants to scream. “Are you still cold? That’s what you earn for riding a fucking motorcycle in fucking Russia, you little Kazakh douchebag.” It sounds like his fuck-ratio drastically increases when he’s tired but Otabek cannot even give it a second thought, because of what he hears next: “Listen, if I get a boner, don’t worry. That’s a normal male reaction to being that close, okay? It’s nothing personal.”

Then a slender arm is wrapped around Otabek who only doesn’t whine because he’s still not breathing. A moment later Yuri’s marvellous body is pressed against Otabek’s backside, a soft hand rubbing his upper arm. Yuri is warm and soft but toned at the same time. He smells divine. For fuck’s sake, he makes Otabek popping the fastest boner in the history of mankind, but how can’t he if he has the sexiest creature alive attached to his pitiful teenage body?!

“Hey”, Yuri whispers against his neck, still rubbing his arm. “Are you alright? You’re breathing is weird.”

“Yes”, Otabek says. Whimpers. Wheezes. How isn’t he dead yet?

“Okay.” Yuri snuggles up to him, then sighs deeply. “G’Night, bear cub.”

Otabek stares into the darkness, frowning helplessly. “Good night, Yuri”, he squeezes out eventually.

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to survive this night.

 

Compared to where he uses to skate back home in Almaty the trio’s home rink is a palace. There’s a giant window front that gives sight over the river and one of those quaint old bridges that you see on postcards. The rink is flooded with sunlight and makes the chrome parts of the two brand new Zambonis sparkle brightly.

“Move your Kazakh ass, bear cub, or I’ll make you by kicking it with my knife shoes!”, Yuri screams like a banshee and _everyone present_ startles and speeds up whatever they are doing.

The idea was to just skate his latest routine, the short program from the juniors’. But when he suggested so earlier Yuri’s eyebrows rose like he just said something really stupid.

“I don’t want to see what your second-class coach thinks is the best you can do.” He crossed his arms over his bony chest. The black shirt he wears is so low cut that Otabek could see the sternum under the porcelain skin. “I want to see what _you_ think is the best you can do.”

So he thinks about it. What is the best? What can he do that shows his potential? That shows his determination? Is there a program that ignites the spark to that fire in him, the fire that made him skip biology class and run back home and get on the bike to ride all the way to St. Petersburg? A program that expresses how strong he could be if only someone showed him how to release this strength?

The answer is actually really easy. If there is one thing in the world that brings out his spirit, his ambition and his willpower, it’s Yuri Plisetsky. His idol who he has tried to equal all his life to the extent that he learned his senior debut free skate, Allegro Appassionato, just because he wanted to be a little more like him so desperately.

So he skates it, all his muscles sore. Even if he was in better condition, he’s not good enough to perfectly mimic all the elements. The jumps are too hard, he can not raise his hands and the best he is able to do is a triple salchow instead of the initial quadruple from the original choreography. Of course he is also not as flexible as Yuri was three years ago when he won his first Grand Prix gold medal with this program. But he’s good at the step sequence, his movements not as fairy-like as Yuri’s but rough and powerful, because that’s what he is - certainly not a fairy, but a knight in shining armour (or at least that’s what he wants to become with all his heart).

The program is hell. It’s incredibly hard and he’s exhausted halfway through already, but he doesn’t give up. Otabek Altin is not a quitter! And he proves it by skating this agonizing routine with aching limbs and with a courage born out of despair. He will not return home defeated! He’s the one for Yuri!

When he comes to a halt after four and a half minutes his legs feel like jelly - or more like the waterbed last night, warm and wobbly. His lungs hurt. Well, honestly, everything hurts. He realizes he grits his teeth and forces his jaws apart to desperately suck in air. Blood rushes in his ears noisily and he turns to see Yuri because he’s not sure if he hears the young man’s voice over the sound in case he says something.

Yuri stands at the outside edge of the rink, his arms still crossed. Otabek notices that he holds his smartphone with one hand and the view scares him. Was it too boring? Did Yuri lose interest and rather check on his SNS? Lowering his arms he starts skating over to Yuri, very slowly, like he can put off the bad words like that.

His idol looks at him all the time with his piercing green eyes, making Otabek feel absolutely insufficient. He thought that it was a good idea to skate the Allegro Appassionato and although he thinks that he did kind of well now he can’t hold back the thought that maybe it was a stupid idea. As if he could keep up with Yuri Plisetsky. Now the thought is ridiculous. Yuri is a legend, skilled, well-trained, beautiful. He’s perfect in any possible way, flexible and fragile, powerful, pretty, elegant and efficient. His limbs are so long and well-sculptured, his features sharp just as his mind, his hair ice coated gold just like all his medals. He’s loveable and admirable, and Otabek loves him as much as he admires him.

On the contrary Otabek is nothing but any Kazakh boy with nothing but a dream, the best his repertoire contains is triple salchow and his looks utterly mediocre. What sight does he even provide in the worn-out, baggy jerseys he had to borrow from Yuuri because he didn’t even bring training wear, his undercut a unkempt black mess and his only expression his inherited frown? He’s not worthy of Yuri Plisetsky, Ice Tiger and Fairy of Russia, living legend, Sleeping Beauty, black hole full of swear words and anger and beauty.

“Seriously, Otabek”, Yuri says. His voice so neutral that it breaks the boy’s heart, but this time it doesn’t only crash onto the ground - no! - this time it feels like Yuri chops the fragments into icy dust with the blades of his skates. Otabek frowns. He gave all he had. Seems it was far from enough.

Yuri tilts his head and hands him a PET bottle of water, watching how Otabek pops it open and takes a sip. “That was kinda cool.”

He splutters it like a fountain.

Yuri guffaws like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen while Otabek coughs for his life. “You’re fucking cute, really!”, he laughs, throwing his head back. His golden mane, tamed in a high pony tail, shimmers like spun gold.

Otabek wipes his mouth, still processing what he’s just heard. “You don’t think it was bad?”, he asks carefully, still not sure if he wants to hear the answer.

“No”, Yuri says and grins down on him. “Actually it was pretty fucking awesome for a junior. You sure have potential.” He reaches out and (Otabek’s heart is probably going to pop like a balloon) with slender ivory fingers pushes a strand of Otabek’s black hair that has fallen over his eyebrow back in place. “There’s one thing you have to explain to me though.” Yuri leans his on his elbows that he placed on top of the boards and tilts his head. “Why did you decide to skate _this_ program?”

Otabek’s mind goes blank. There are multiple reasons. A bazillion. He knows there are. But as he stares at Yuri, who smiles the slightest, most beautiful smile at him, his lips so silky and pastel pink and his lashes so long and his eyes so green and a tiny blush on his pretty nose, there’s only _this_ _one thing_ that Otabek can think of. So he frowns and balls his free hand into a fist and as honest and serious as he can says: “Because I love you.”

The smile on Yuri’s lips remains but the rest of his expression becomes puzzled and Otabek realizes what he’s just said. In his mind he uses a proper swear word for the second time in his life: a very appropriate ‘Fuuuuuuuuuuck’.

“Well…”, Yuri says, straightening himself. “Let’s talk about that by the time you grow chest hair.” He grins his wonderful boyish grin that makes Otabek blush the color of borscht. With a laugh and a low “You’re fucking cute” he leans in and presses a kiss on Otabek’s hairline, then turns around and marches off towards the locker rooms. “Davai, we need to plan on registering you for the senior division. And ask your mother to send you some clothes, I’ll not let my Kenzo and Westwood couture be worn by any adopted bear cub.”

It’s a good thing that the jerseys he lent from Yuuri are worn-out and baggy. Otabek really doesn’t want everyone to see his sudden and very weird boner. “Fuuuck”, he groans as he follows his new coach.

 

  


 

_Something in your eyes_

_Was so inviting_

_Something in your smile_

_Was so exciting_

_Something in my heart told me I must have you_

_Strangers in the night, two lonely people_

_We were strangers in the night_

_Up to the moment when we said our first hello_

_Little did we know_

_Love was just a glance away_

 

Frank Sinatra - Strangers in the Night

  


 

**Author's Note:**

> It is physically impossible to get from Almaty to St. with a bike in that timespan, but who cares XD  
> Also, this will most likely have a sequel. For Halloween. For no particular reason... Just saying ;D
> 
> Thanks to everyone involved in this project! It was awesome fun!


End file.
